THE  LIBRARY 
OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


THE  MARINES 


AND    OTHER    WAR    VERSE 


BY 
ADOLPHE  E.  SMYLIE 


Imicfcerbocfeer  press 
NEW  YORK 

1919 


35*37 


50 
E.   C.  S. 


623953 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  MARINES 9 

*HOROO! ii 

*ON  His  OWN 13 

*EYES  FOR  THE  ARMY 16 

*WITH  STOP-GAP  CAREY  .  .  .  .19 
"OVERHEARD  IN  A  HANGAR  .  .  .  .21 

*His  STAR 23 

*TIFFIN  TALK 26 

*THE  FOREIGN  LEGION 28 

*A  DUGOUT  SYMPOSIUM  ....      30 

*A  LETTER  FROM  THE  FRONT  ....  33 
*A  BIT  OF  BLUEST  HEAVEN  ....  35 
*THE  RED  CROSS  ROLL  CALL  .  .  .37 

THE  FOURTH  IN  PARIS  .....       39 
New  York  Herald,  illustrated. 

A  WAYSIDE  IN  FRANCE          ....       42 
New  York  Herald,  illustrated. 

MACARTHUR   OF   THE   GORDONS  ...         44 

New  York  Herald,  illustrated. 


"Issued  by  The  Vigilantes,  1918. 
[5] 


PAGE 

LES  BLESSES          .  ...       47 

American  Golfer,  December,  1917. 

SERGEANT  BROWN.         .         .  51 

NENETTE  AND  RINTINTIN       .  .       53 

BASTILLE  DAY,  July  14,  1918  .       56 

WAR  DOGS   .         .  -59 

WHY  WORRY?        .         .  -63 

C(EUR   DE   LlON       .  .          64 

HOMEWARD  BOUND         .  -65 

WITH  THE  ALLIES          .  .  .68 

American  Golfer,  November,  1914 

SOMEWHERE  ...  -74 

MY  PAL  FRANCOIS 76 

THE  SMOKED  YANKEES          ....       78 
"SMILES"      .  .81 

ARE  WE  DOWNHEARTED?       .  .86 

THE  GAP  IN  THE  LINE  88 


[6] 


THE  MARINES 

"PARDON!  he  has  no  Engleesh,  heem, 

II  ne  parle  que  francais; 
I  spik  it  leetle  some,  monsieur, 

Vaire  bad,  j'en  suis  fach£ — 
Marines?     Mais  oui!  I  fight  wiz  zem 

At  Chateau  Thierry 
An'  on  ze  Ourcq  an'  Marne  in  grande 

Bonne  camaraderie. 
I  see  zem  fight  at  Bois  Belleau, 

Like  sauvage  make  ze  yell, — 
Sacre  nom  de  Dieu !  zoze  sailor  man 

Eez  fightin'  like  ze  hell ! 
All  time  zey  smile  when  make  ze  push, 

Magnifique  zaire  elan, 
Zey  show  ze  heart  of  lion 

For  delight  our  brav  Franchman. 
An'  in  ze  tranch  at  rest,  zoze  troop 

From  ze  Etats  Unis 
Queeck  make  ze  good  frien'  of  poilu 

Wiz  beeg  slap  on  ze  knee ! 
Zey  make  ze  song  an'  joke,  si  dr61e, 

An'  pass  ze  cigarette; 


Zey  call  us  goddam  good  ol'  scout 

Like  Marquis  La  Fayette. 
Next  day,  mebbee,  again  ze  taps, — 

Ze  volley  in  ze  air; — 
Adieu !  some  fightin'  sailor  man 

Eez  gone  West.    C'est  la  guerre! 
No  more  ze  smile,  ze  hug,  ze  hand 

Queeck  wiz  ze  cigarette; 
C'est  vrai,  at  funerall  of  heem 

Ze  poilu's  eye  eez  wet. 
But,  every  day  like  tidal  wave, — 

Like  human  avalanche, — 
Ze  transport  bring  more  Yankee  troop, 

To  get  ze  beeg  revanche ! 
Zen  from  ze  heart  Ame*ricam 

Come  milliards  of  monnaie ; 
Eet  eez  ze  end !    Your  countree  bring 

Triomphante  liberte". 
So,  au  revoir !  I  mus'  go  on, 

But  first  I  tell  to  yo' 
What  some  high  Offlcier  remark 

Zat  day  at  Bois  Belleau: 
He  say,  our  great  Napoleon 

Wiz  envy  would  turn  green 
Eef  he  could  see  zoze  sailor  man, — 

Zoze  Oncle  Sam  Marines!" 

[10] 


HOROO! 

THE  stretcher-bearers  had  just  brought  them 

in; 

It  looked  like  a  message  to  "next  of  kin" 
For  Private  O'Leary  and  Private  O'Flynn, — 

But  the  Surgeon  said 

"They '11  be  all  right! 

These  Irish  are  tougher  than  Billy-be-damned, 
For  they  can  be  everlastingly  lammed, 
Shot  up  or  cut  up  or  blown  up  or  rammed 

And  they're  back  again  soon 

For  more  fight!" 

Moaned  O'Leary,  "Mike,  man,  how  do  you 

feel? 

Tm  mashed  to  a  jelly,  me  head's  in  a  reel, — 
'Twas  beautiful  though  whin  we  stuck  'em 
wid  stheel, 

But  I  missed  a  sthroke 
Seein'  you  fall." 
In] 


Groaned  Mike,  "Ivery  bone  in  me  body  is 

broke, 

A  squad  o'  thim  Fritzies  all  gave  me  a  soak ; 
'Twas  a  hell  ov  a  fight !    Sure  that's  no  joke, 
But — it's  betther  than 
No  fight  at  all!" 


ON   HIS  OWN 

"You  see  that  young  kid  lying  there 

Playing  a  game  of  solitaire? 

All  shot  to  pieces  in  the  air; 

By  Heck,  Sarge,  he's  a  wonder. 

The  gamest  lad  I  ever  met; 

They're  probing  him  for  bullets  yet, 

But  s — sh !  here  comes  his  nurse  Yvette, — 

Kept  him  from  going  under. 

"You  think  she's  passing  by  him?    Nit! 
D'you  get  that  smile?    He  waves  his  mitt ; 
I  think  he's  stuck  on  her  a  bit, 
Can't  blame  him  for  that  matter. 
She  watches  him  just  like  a  hawk, 
Now  listen  to  their  daily  talk, 
She's  all  Paree,  he's  all  New  York; 
Sit  quiet,  hear  their  chatter." 

' '  Pardonnez-moi,  d6sirez-vous — ' ' 

"  Oh ,  fine  and  dandy !    How  are  you  ? ' ' 

' '  Quelque  chose  ?    Comprenez-vous  ? — ' ' 


"Ah,  now  I  know  you're  kiddin'." 
"  Vous  avez  bonne  mine  aujourd'hui — " 
"It's  high  time  you  were  nice  to  me." 
"Time?  Je  comprends,  il  est  midi — " 
"Bright  eyes,  I  think  I'm  skiddin'." 

"Je  crois  que  je  vous  donnerai — " 
"I'll  back  up  anything  you -say — " 
"Un  petit  morceau  de  poulet — " 
"You  fascinating  creature!" 
"Avec  la  cr£me,  dans  la  coquille, —  " 
"Rats!    There  she  goes!    I  always  feel 
Some  blessy's  S.  O.  S.  appeal 
Will  call  off  my  French  teacher." 

"The  Sarge  here  nudged  my  splintered  ribs: 
'Well,    I'll   be  damned!     Here   comes   His 

Nibs.' 

And  down  the  aisle  stalked  General  Gibbs 
With  all  the  famous  aces. 
They  formed  around  the  sick  boy's  bed, 
He  gasped,  saluted,  then  turned  red : 
'Looks  like  I'm  pinched!'  was  all  he  said, 
Scanning  their  smiling  faces. 

"'So,'  spoke  the  General,  'you  alone 
Brought  down  three  Taubes  on  your  own ! 
Another  Yankee  Ace  is  known 
[14] 


To  everyone  in  Blighty. 
I'm  proud  to  know  you, — put  it  there,- 
And  now  we're  going  to  let  you  wear 
This  gallantly  won  Croix  de  Guerre 
I'm  pinning  on  your  nighty.' ' 


[15 


EYES  FOR  THE  ARMY 

Everyone  who  owns  a  field-glass  is  asked  to  forward 
it  to  Franklin  Roosevelt,  Naval  Observatory,  Wash 
ington,  D.  C. — Exchange,  April,  1918. 

FAREWELL  my  old  binoculars 
Snug  in  your  well-worn  case, 
Aye !  since  the  days  of  Jerome  Park 
We've  seldom  missed  a  race. 
Gone  now  the  days  when  you  and  I 
Would  watch  our  "one  best  bet" 
Get  left  flat-footed  at  the  post, — 
I  see  them  running  yet ! 
You've  seen  my  patrimony  fade 
And  my  stiff  upper  lip 
Grow  tremulous  from  dalliance  with 
The  sure  diurnal  tip. 
Mayhap  this  parting  with  our  "lamps" 
May  bring  surcease  to  some 
Whose  coin  like  mine  is  near  the 
Irreducible  minimum. 
Without  you  now,  the  racing  game 
[16] 


Looks  drab  and  drear  and  dark; 

Vale!    Jamaica,  Aqueduct, 

And  eke  fair  Belmont  Park ! 

For  now  I've  sent  you, — Lord  knows  where, 

Because  I  know  I  should; 

Could  I  but  share  your  adventure, — 

I  wish  to  Heaven  I  could 

But  adolescence;  golden  youth; 

The  fires  of  yesteryear; — 

Gone  glimmering  with  the  auld  lang  syne, 

That's  why  I  must  stay  here. 

Atone  then  for  our  empty  days, 

Our  futile  hours  of  ease 

And  take  this  message  with  you 

To  our  comrades  overseas : 

Stand  fast,  you  war-worn  allies,  with 

Your  "backs  against  the  wall," 

Can't  you  hear  the  tramp  of  millions? 

We've  heard  your  bugle  call. 

The  Almighty  may  forgive  us 

For  our  apathetic  start, 

But  now  America  sees  red, — 

Fear  not !    She'll  do  her  part. 

We'll  send  our  blood  and  treasure  for 

The  death  grip  just  begun 

To  rid  the  world  of  hellish  spawn, — 

The  execrated  Hun. 


On  guard,  then,  with  your  lenses  bright 
And  furnish  "eyes"  to  see 
The  last  swath  of  spiked  helmets  mowed 
In  shell-torn  Picardy. 


[18] 


WITH  STOP-GAP  CAREY 

"THEY  wus  mostly  cooks  an'  teamsters 

As  made  up  our  misfit  crew 
That  followed  Stop-Gap  Carey, — 

But  not  a  Boche  got  through. 
That  stand  promoted  Carey 

From  the  ranks  o'  Brigadiers 
An'  that's  where  I  met  that  daffy  bunch 

O'  Yankee  Engineers. 
A  'andful  o'  those  bridge  men 

'Ummin'  some  old  college  song 
Wuz  a  fixin'  up  a  causeway 

When  our  pick-ups  rushed  along. 
They  sensed  wot  wuz  a-doin' — 

Their  Lieutenant  yelled :     '  Hey,  Bo ! 
If  you'll  let  us  in  the  picture 

We'll  kick  in  this  movie  show. 
Can  you  swap  some  guns  for  shovels? 

Never  mind !     Fall  in  there,  boys ! 
Grab  those  crowbars  and  short  canthooks, 

Let's  join  in  with  the  big  noise!' 
[19] 


44 1  wuz  near  that  young  Lieutenant 

When  the  Fritzies  tried  our  trench, 
'E'd  used  up  'is  automatic 

An'  'e  swung  a  Stillson  wrench. 
No  baynit  seemed  to  reach  'im 

As  'e  smashed  on  through  the  line, 
An'  'is  mates  with  picks  an'  shovels 

Wuz  a-backin'  of  'im  fine. 
'E  wuz  champion,  that  'e  wuz, 

A  bonnie  sight  to  see, 
An'  'e  kept  chantin'  'Here's  your  jam 

And  there's  your  dish  o'  tea ! ' 

"  'E  said  to  me  next  mornin', 

'  Lloyd  George,  I  like  your  map ! 
You're  all  Ai  merino 

And  a  yard  wide  in  a  scrap ! 
Come  spend  a  week-end  with  us 

If  you  like  Westphalia  ham, — 
At  our  shooting-box  for  schweinhunds 

Called  Sans  Souci  near  Potsdam.' 
With  that,  they  went  back  to  their  job, 

Their  laughter  in  the  breeze, — 
But  oo  can  understand  their  talk? 

It's  worse  than  Senegalese." 


20] 


OVERHEARD  IN  A  HANGAR 

I  LIKE  my  job,  to  hang  around 
And  tune  up  motors  on  the  ground — 
Give  'em  that  smooth  old  purring  sound 
And  start  them  off  a-screeching. 
The  job  has  done  me  good,  I  think, 
Leastwise,  my  doubts  are  on  the  blink — 
I'm  getting  pretty  near  the  brink 
Where  I'll  believe  in  preaching. 

Take  young  Jim's  case.     He  flew,  back  home, 
Then  came  here,  where  they  cut  his  comb; 
He  comes  from  Watertown  or  Rome, 
Some  place  near  the  big  river. 
Got  all  shot  up  as  you  lads  know 
Then  volplaned  forty  miles  or  so 
Unconscious  I    Now  that  bunk  won't  go 
About  a  "wise  old  flivver." 

I  saw  him  come  at  ten  o'clock 
A  full-speed  nose-dive,  like  a  rock, 
But  landed  sweet,  no  jar  or  shock — 

[21], 


You  get  that,  mechanicians! 
He  says  he  fainted  past  their  line, 
His  watch  exactly  half -past  nine — 
Now  who  brought  home  this  pal  o'  mine  ? 
Well,  I  have  my  suspicions. 

Don't  hand  me  that  subconscious  stuff; 
I'm  not  religious,  half  enough; 
But  you  can  note  this  on  your  cuff: 
It  is  a  Higher  Power 
Than  gasoline  that  drives  a  plane 
And  brings  limp  airmen  home  again 
Through  fog  and  sleet  and  hurricane 
A  hundred  miles  an  hour ! 

I  know  God  makes  his  presence  felt 
To  birdmen  up  in  the  moon-belt, 
Or  Jim  would  be  dead  as  a  smelt ! 
And  now,  that  tough  young  geezer 
Admits  he  always  seemed  to  feel 
Some  Spirit  hand  was  on  his  wheel; 
If  that  kid  doesn't  learn  to  kneel 
I'll  bang  him  on  the  beezer. 


[22] 


HIS   STAR 

WE  laughed  when  little  Bill  said  "Dad, 

I'm  going  to  the  war!" 
But  that's  his  star  a-waving 

On  the  flag  outside  our  door. 
It  didn't  seem  conceivable 

That  such  a  puny  lad 
Could  get  into  the  Army, — 

But  it  shows  the  spunk  he  had. 
Yes,  Bill  was  a  persistent, 

Bull-headed  little  cuss, 
Though  when  the  doctors  turned  him  down 

He  didn't  make  a  fuss, 
Just  said:     "Me  for  the  country,  Dad, 

I'll  come  back  fine  as  silk; 
I'll  eat  my  weight  in  potcheese 

And  I'll  swim  in  cream  and  milk." 
That  night  he  came  and  told  me 

Just  before  he  went  to  bed, 
As  near  as  he  remembered, 

What  the  Army  doctors  said : 
[23] 


"They  listened  through  a  stethoscope 

To  get  some  inside  news 
And  something  in  my  heart  told  me 

That  I  was  going  to  lose. 
They  didn't  mention  leprosy, 

I'm  glad  I  haven't  that, 
But  I've  got  everything  else,  Dad, 

To  put  me  on  the  mat. 
I'm  underweight  and  undersized; 

They  say  I  have  flat  feet ; 
I'm  short  a  few  bicuspids 

Used  for  fletcherizing  meat. 
My  right  lung  is  as  good  as  new, 

The  other  one's  a  wreck, 
But  though  the  left  one  is  not  right 

The  right  one's  left,  by  Heck! 
Then,  infantile  paralysis 

They  say  I've  barely  missed, 
But  spinal  meningitis  may 

Soon  put  me  on  the  list. 
My  optic  nerves  do  not  project 

Clear  pictures  to  my  brain ; 
My  pericardium  shows  that 

I'm  suffering  from  ptomaine. 
Then  somewhere  in  my  system 

There's  a  floating  kidney  loose 
And  there's  too  much  saly-something 
[24] 


In  my  pancreatic  juice. 
They  hinted  at  sarcoma 

Of  the  epithelium; 
I  don't  know  what  it  is  but  you'll 

Admit  that's  going  some! 
My  respiration  is  too  short ; 

My  tonsils  are  too  long; 
My  whole  metabolism  is 

Absodawlutely  wrong ! 
But  why  should  a  corpse  worry  ? 

I  don't  care  now,  what  they  said — 
Their  autopsy  distinctly  shows 

I've  been  a  long  time  dead!" 

Bill  left  next  day  for  the  old  farm 

Owned  by  his  doting  aunts, — 
We  haven't  seen  him  since,  although 

He  wrote  to  us  from  France. 
We  laughed  when  little  Bill  said,  "Dad, 

I'm  going  to  the  war!" 
But  that's  his  star  a-waving 

On  the  flag  outside  our  door. 
Yes,  Bill  was  a  persistent, 

Bull-headed  little  cuss, — 
He  writes  he's  now  chief  deck-hand 

On  an  eight-ton  Army  bus. 


25 


TIFFIN  TALK 

' '  HERE'S  a  stray  Tommy !  Hey  there !  Arf  a  mo' ! 

Come  chow  with  our  bunch  o'  Marines ! 
Cast  your  lamps  on  this  pile  o'  doughnuts; 

Take  a  slant  at  these  Boston  beans! 
Sure,  throw  out  your  clutch,  that's  the  idea, 

Slack  off  your  belly  band.     Eat ! 
But,  if  you're  too  tender  for  splinters, 

Grab  a  sandbag  or  two  for  a  seat. 
What's  new?     Is  All  Highest  complaining 

That  the  Allies  are  getting  too  rough  ? 
We've  got  a  hunch  in  this  Corps,  old  top, 

That  Jerry  has  near  had  enough ! 
What's  the  dope  in  the  London  papers, 

Do  they  think  we've  got  Fritz  on  the  run — 
Or,  do  they  in  spite  of  our  land-grabs, 

Say  our  troubles  have  only  begun  ? " 

"Th*  last  news  is  what  Conan  Doyle  says 
In  the  Standard,  as  I  'ave  just  read, — 

'E  says  Berlin  shall  be  occupied 
By  invadin'  their  country,  'e  said; 
[26] 


An'  when  we  all  sits  at  the  tible 

To  decide  what  to  do  with  th'  'Un, 
'Twill  be  th'  sime  blinkin'  tible 

In  Potsdam,  where  war  wuz  begun. 
'E  says  th'  blighters  'as  notions 

That  they're  sife  on  th'  Rhine  an'   Mo 
selle, — 
'E  looks  for  sudden  collapse,  an'  then — 

We'll  drive  th'  pigs  'ome  sure  as  'ell!" 

' '  Attaboy !    That's  the  stuff,  Tommy ! 

Conan  Doyle's  got  the  high-sign  all  right ; 
I  like  to  blurt  out  my  convictions 

And  I  tell  you  surrender's  in  sight ! 
Meanwhile  just  wetnurse  that  motto 

That  goes  with  our  crackerjack  tanks, — 
'  Treat  'em  rough ! '  the  rougher  the  better, 

And  that  goes  with  two  million  Yanks. 
Remember  the  Lusitania, 

And  pray  for  the  order  to-night, — 
1  No  quarter  from  now  for  the  Heinies, 

Fifty-fifty  on  Schrecklichkeit ! ' 
Then  for  a  brick-wall  atonement 

From  Bill  and  his  degenerates, — 
After  giving  them  torch,  sack,  and  pillage, — 

That's  the  verdict  of  me  and  my  mates!" 


27] 


THE  FOREIGN   LEGION 

HATS  off  to  the  Foreign  Legion! 

Your  health,  Sergeant  Michael  McWhite ! 
We  picked  your  name  out  at  random, 

As  a  rhyme  co-efficient  for  "fight." 
The  papers  tell  us  you  are  Irish, 

A  popular  race  in  New  York, 
Where  we  have  more  sons  of  old  Ireland 

Than  there  are  in  your  County  of  Cork ! 
We  have  a  sneaking  affection,  Mike, 

For  you  and  your  prototype  Pat, 
Whose  coat  tails  we  prefer  to  sidestep 

When  it  comes  to  the  drop  of  the  hat. 
We  know  your  Serbian  record,  Sarge, 

And  have  followed  you  up  ever  since, 
By  the  stains  on  your  musket  and  sabre,— 

Your  bloody,  tell-tale  finger  prints ! 
Death  scoffers,  with  lives  on  your  coat  sleeves, 

Dedicated  to  beloved  France; 
The  same  sangfroid  in  your  devil-may-care 

Ancient  order  of  thrilling  romance ! 
I  28] 


All  hail  to  the  bold  Foreign  Legion, 

Their  home  any  casual  trench, 
With  their  English,  Irish,  Egyptians, 

Moroccans,  Poles,  Belgians,  French; 
Americans  too, — some  immortal 

In  the  death  that  the  Legionnaire  seeks, — 
Brave  Rockwell  and  Seeger,  the  poet, 

And  Whitmore  and  Kelly  and  Weeks ! 
Thrice  welcome,  scarred  men  of  the  Legion, 

Who  honor  our  country  to-day; 
America  reveres  the  uniform 

Of  the  Legion  d'Honneur  fourrager ! 


A   DUGOUT  SYMPOSIUM 

"Wi*  ye  baud  yer  tongue,  Jock  MacGreegor? 

Dinna  cheep  us  anither  wurd; 
Hoots !  gie  thon  obleegin'  Frenchmen 

A  chanst  fur  his  song  tae  be  hurd. 
Ye're  liker  a  wean  nor  a  sojer, 

Fur  yinst  haud  yer  gab  onyways,— 
Ye  sudna  mak'  mock,  nae  doot  lad 

He'll  be  singin'  th'  Marsylaise! 
Toots,  havers!  guan  wi'  yer  singin', 

Dinna  fash  yersel'  mon,  sing  awa', 
Furbye  there's  naught  tae  be  feart  aboot, 

We're  auld  fechtin'  freens  one  an'  a'!" 

"Merci,  vous  £tes  tres  aimable; 
Je  veux  vitement  obliger 
Mais  je  chante  tou jours  ce  ravissant 
Overzaire:  C'est  une  peche;  e"coutez! 
Oui,  la-bas!    Oui,  la-bas! 
Chantons-le,  chantons-le,  oui,  la-bas! 
Que  les  Yanks  arrivent,  que  les  Yanks  ar- 
rivent, 

[30] 


Les  tambours  battent  un  rataplan ! 
Alors,  Boche!    Garde  a  toi! 
Chantons-le,  chahtons-le,  garde  a  toi ! 
Nous  arrivons — nous  sommes  en  route, 
Nous  ne  lacherons  pas,  nous  tiendrons  jus- 
qu'au  bout!" 

"Scaramouch!  da  leetla  Franchman 

He  carry  da  frog  in  da  throat ! 
Ah,  Milano !  mia  La  Scala ! 

Dees  Franchman  he  getta  ma  goat ! 
Nobody  singa  da  moosic 

Like  da  greata  tenori  Caruse ! 
Rigoletto !  I  cry,  I  go  crazy, 

I  maka  da  monk'  an'  da  goose!" 

"Garn  with  yer  blinkin'  haspersions! 

Caruse!    Oo  th'  'ell  is  'e? 
No  doubt  some  fat  organ-grinder 

From  a  dump  down  in  Italy. 
Cheero,  there,  Frenchie!  ye're  rippin'! 

Though  I  don't  know  a  damn  word  ye  said, 
But  I  'eard  that  played  back  in  Lunnon 

With  th'  Stars  an'  Stripes  over'ead ! 
Gar  blimey,  that  tune  puts  th'  punch  in 

Th'  'ole  bally  batterin'-ram ; 
[31] 


That's  th'  marchin'  song  o'  th'  Yankees 
An'  ye'll  'ear  it  soon  in  Potsdam. 

That  singin'  bunch  is  a  fightin'  bunch, — 
Yer  can't  'old  'em  back  o'  th'  tanks,— 

They're  top-'ole  troops;  we're  bloomin'  proud 
To  brigade  with  th'  'ard-'ittin'  Yanks!" 


[32] 


A  LETTER  FROM  THE  FRONT 

"  I'VE  studied  hard  since  last  I  wrote 

For  I  haven't  much  else  to  do, 
Since  I  muffed  that  inshoot  hand-grenade, 

But  brush  up  my  parleyvoo. 
So  I  wrestle  verbs  while  loafing,  Dan, 

On  my  first-base-hospital  cot, — 
'Je  parle,  tu  parle,  il  (or  elle)  parle, ' — 

Sounds  kind  o'  highbrow,  eh  what ! 
Wait  'til  I  spill  this  at  Luna  Park, — 

'Combien  ces  saucissons  ci?' 
They'll  never  know  I'm  asking  what 

The  price  of  hot  dogs  might  be ! 
The  table  d'hdte  talk  is  quite  easy, 

Not  half  as  hard  as  it  seems, 
Though  I'll  never  get  wise  in  nickels 

To  quatre-vingt-dix-huit  centimes! 
However,  I'll  get  so  Frenchified 

I'll  scare  folks  when  I  get  home, — 
A  bonehead  turned  philologist 

With  a  bulging  Gallicized  dome ! 
'  The  nut ! '     I  can  hear  you  saying, 

'What's  started  him  on  this  hunch? 

3  [33] 


Near-English  was  always  good  enough 

For  him  and  his  pinochle  bunch ! ' 
So  I  might  as  well  'fess  up,  old  son, 

I've  had  sinking  spells  of  late; 
I'm  rubbing  the  Katies  and  Maggies 

And  Honorias  off  my  slate ! 
A  slip  of  a  girl  here,  started  me 

At  frisking  the  French  grammaire, — 
One  who  could  take  me  captive 

With  a  strand  of  her  dusky  hair; 
An  orphan  maid  who  teaches  us  French 

And  what  it  means  to  be  brave, — 
Not  a  man  left  of  her  kith  and  kin, 

Each  one  in  a  soldier's  grave. 
Bless  God,  when  I  hear  that  Black  Jack 

Is  unter  den  linden  tree 
I'll  know  that  this  oblate  spheroid 

Is  safe  for  democracy; 
Then  back  to  the  dear  old  U.  S.  A., 

But  first  I  will  tell  Yvonne 
That  I  know  a  bank  up  in  Harlem 

Where  I  have  cached  some  mon, 
And  if  she  will  flicker  an  eyelash 

That  I  can  interpret  as  '  Oui, ' 
I'll  transplant  my  Picardy  flower, — 

That's  what  we'd  call  'fait  accompli!" 

[34] 


A  BIT  OF  BLUEST  HEAVEN 

"T     ake  a  chair,  old  comrade, — 

pull  up  and  toast  your  feet ; 
H     aven't  had  mine  warm  before 

since  Forty-Second  Street. 
E      ver  see  a  place  like  this  ? 

it's  true  what  they  all  say, — 
Y     ou'll  find  anointed  ones  of  God 

at  the  Y.  M.  C.  A. 
M    any  of  our  soldier  wrecks 

have  crawled  here  half  insane, — 
C     are  and  tender  mothering 

put  life  in  them  again. 
A     Iways,  in  the  hearts  and  minds 

of  all  Humanity 
R     ed  triangles  will  symbolize 

a  Christlike  charity, 
E     xplaining  more  to  me  than  all 

the  Saints  and  Prophets  wrote; 
D     ash  it  all !  it  sure  gives  me 

a  big  lump  in  my  throat. 
[35] 


T     hrough  war's  saturnalia 

God's  flag  has  been  unfurled 
R     ight  here !  where  boundless  pity 

brings  redemption  to  the  World. 
I      t's  a  'little  bit  of  all  right' 

here  in  your  easy  chair 
A     nd  these  cheery  foster-Mothers 

grudge  none  their  zealous  care; 
N     ever  tiring,  unfaltering 

though  Inferno  flares  the  sky, 
G     iving  melting  sympathy 

that  almost  makes  you  cry. 
L     ordoflove!    I'll  tell  you  what 

the  Y  HUT  is  to  me  — 
E     arth's  bit  of  bluest  Heaven 

in  this  Hell  of  butchery." 


[36] 


THE  RED  CROSS  ROLL  CALL 

"THROW  up  your  hands!  all  of  you! 
No,  it's  not  burglary, — 
We  only  want  to  count  you  in 
The  Red  Cross  drive,  you  see. 
It's  their  Christmas  roll  call 
So,  each  Mother's  son  of  you 
Sign  up !  of  course  we  also  mean 
Each  Mother's  daughter,  too. 
Just  fancy  what  that  blessed  band 
Has  done  in  la  belle  France ! 
Put  down  your  names  for  Mercy's  sake; 
Be  thankful  for  the  chance.. 
Just  a  few  weeks  back  it  seemed 
A  figment  of  the  brain, — 
But  here's  a  joyous  Christmas  come 
With  '  peace  on  earth '  again ! 
No  more  to  scan  those  cabled  lists, 
Dread  casualty  notes, 
With  fear  that  we  would  find  his  name 
Clutching  our  hearts  and  throats ! 
Cheero!  let's  get  together; 
[371 


Can  we  put  you  on  the  list  ? 
The  amount  is  insignificant 
And  never  will  be  missed. 
Think  of  your  priceless  birthright 
And  the  golden  days  to  come, — 
Join !  and  thank  God  you  can  say 
'  Americanus  sum! '  " 


[38] 


THE   FOURTH   IN   PARIS 

New  York  Herald,  Sunday,  Aug.  18,  1918. 

"YOU'RE  right,  Mate,  that  was  some  parade 
On  Independence  Day, 
Down  President  Wilson  Avenue, 
Out  Strasbourg  Monument  way, 
When  our  blood-baptized  youngsters 
Went  marching  through  Paree, 
Back  from  those  gun-nests,  Bois  Belleau 
And  Chateau  Thierry. 
Yes,  we  were  the  Exhibit  A, 
The  'Teufel  Hunden'  Corps, 
And  that  town  sure  went  bughouse 
As  it  never  did  before. 
Remember  how  we  all  were  bombed 
From  both  sides  of  the  street 
By  those  bewitching  French  girls 
Throwing  flowers  at  our  feet  ? 
And  after  all  my  dodging 
And  ducking  shrapnel  shells 
I  got  hit  plumb  on  the  bugle 
139) 


With  a  bunch  of  immortelles ! 
Leastwise,  that's  what  I  call  them — 
Their  fragrance  haunts  me  yet ; 
I've  pinned  them  near  my  wishbone 
For  a  good-luck  amulet. 
Sure,  I've  got  them!  right  here,  Mate, 
Inside  my  flannel  shirt — 
The  first  thing  ever  sent  to  me 
By  any  living  skirt ! 
I  saw  her  when  she  threw  them — 
Threw  me  a  shy  kiss,  too — 
I  see  her  starry  eyes  right  now 
In  this  slumgullion  stew. 
It's  natural  for  them  to  flirt, 
Come  opportunity, 
But  I  marched  with  some  classy  kids, 
Why  pick  a  hick  like  me? 
I  must  be  fascinating 
Like  the  cobra,  I'm  afraid, 
For  I  have  got  the  ugliest  map 
Le  bon  Dieu  ever  made ! 
I  hope  the  One  Omnipotent 
Will  change  the  human  race — 
A  man's  no  right  to  have  a  heart 
With  an  ingrowing  face! 
To  me  last  Independence  Day 
Was  just  a  screen  parade, 
[40! 


Dissolving  in  a  '  close-up ' 

Of  my  inconnue  maid. 

I  wonder  if  she'll  ever  know — 

That  dainty,  mocking  lass — 

The  hell  she  raised  with  your  old  pal, 

A  sentimental  ass!" 


[41] 


A  WAYSIDE  IN  FRANCE 
New  York  Herald,  Sunday,  September  i,  1918. 

"COME  shake  hands,  my  little  peach  blossom ; 

That's  right,  dear,  climb  up  on  my  knee. 

This  big  Yankee  soldier  is  lonesome — 

Ah,  now  we'll  be  friends,  ma  che"rie. 

We  won't  understand  one  another, 

Your  round  eyes  are  telling  me  so, 

But  the  cling  of  your  chubby  fingers 

Is  a  language  that  all  daddies  know. 

When  I  caught  a  sight  of  your  pigtails 

And  those  eyes  of  violet  blue, 

It  made  me  heart-hungry,  ma  petite, 

For  I've  a  wee  girl  just  like  you. 

She  lives  'way  across  the  wide  ocean, 

Out  where  the  bald  eagles  nest, 

And   she   knows    all   the   chipmunks   and 

gophers 
At  my  shack  out  in  the  West." 

"Tu  dis  1'ouest!    Est-ce  ton  pays? 
Veux-tu,  quand  tu  iras  chez-toi — 
[42! 


Maman  est  toujours  a  pleurer — 
Me  retrouver  mon  soldat  Papa? 
II  etait  avec  sa  batterie 
Pres  des  Anglais  la,  en  campagne, 
Mais  Papa  est  alle  dans  1'ouest, 
Des  Anglais  disaient  a  Maman. 
Alors,  Maman  sera  heureuse 
Et,  tu  vois  elle  ne  pleurera  plus; 
Je  veux  te  donner  un  baiser, — 
Merci!     Tu  es  si  bon  pour  nous !" 

"  There  she  goes!    She  told  me  her  secret, 
Kissed  me  and  then  flew  away, — 
Say,  Poilu!  you  savez  some  English, 
Now  what  did  that  little  tot  say?" 

"She  say  Engleeshman  tol'  her  Mama 
Zat  her  soldat  Papa  eez  gone  West ! 
You  said  West,  bien !  zen  you  live  zaire, 
So  she  make  you  her  leetle  request, 
Zat  you  find  heem  in  your  countree 
So  her  Mama  no  more  she  weel  cry ; 
Zen  she  thank  you  an'  kees  you,  si  joyeuse, — 
Pauvre  mignonne,  she  think  you  weel  try!" 


43l 


MACARTHUR  OF  THE  GORDONS 

New  York  Herald,  Wednesday,  October  30,  1918. 

"HEY,  Sergeant,  I  just  met  a  Kiltie — 
By  Gee  t  they  grow  bigger  than  whales — 
This  one  six-five  in  his  holeproofs 
And  he'd  bust  any  Fairbanks  scales! 
He  left  footprints  in  the  roadway 
Like  a  big  he-elephant's  spoor 
And  the  heather  that  grew  on  his  knee  joints 
Would  stuff  a  fair  sized  ostermoor. 
He'd  a  hand  like  a  bunch  o'  bananas, 
As  red  as  his  scrawny  wrist 
And  when  I  shook  hands  with  him  later 
He  cracked  every  bone  in  my  fist ! 
I  saw  the  braw  Hielander  coming, — 
Bonnet  and  plaids  and  a*  that, 
And  I  thought  I'd  flag  wee  MacGreegor 
For  a  smoke  and  a  bit  of  a  chat. 
So  I  called,  'Whoa  there,  Caledonia! 
Back  pedal,  let's  chin  for  a  spell; 
I'm  Private  McGrath,  of  the  Rainbows; 
What's  your  name,  little  lady  from  hell?' 
[441 


I  certainly  felt  like  a  sawed-off 
Looking  up  at  that  haggis-fed, 
Who  proved  to  be  Arthur  MacArthur, 
Of  the  Gordons,  I  think  he  said. 
I  couldn't  dope  his  dialect  Sarge, 
But  just  write  this  down  in  your  book — 
If  Tie  ever  goes  into  vaudeville 
They'll  give  Harry  Lauder  the  hook! 
I  couldn't  get  much  of  his  prattle, 
Although  I  tried  pretty  hard, 
For  the  burr  on  his  tongue  was  thicker 
Than  the  cooties  in  my  back-yard. 
I  slipped  him  a  Pittsburg  stogie, 
The  first  one,  I  think,  he  had  seen, 
Then  he  joyfully  smashed  my  fingers 
Fading  in  a  tobacco-smoke  screen. 
I  know  he's  a  worthy  descendant 
Of  a  hardy  old  sheep  stealing  line, 
The  kind  that  will  charge  the  '  blazing  gates ' 
If  he  hears  the  old  bagpipes  whine ! 
I  hope  I  will  meet  him  again,  soon, 
On  this  cuppy  fair-green  somewhere; 
I've  got  a  present  to  give  him 
That  once  nearly  gassed  me  for  fair ! 
It's  that  box  of  smokes  Sis  sent  me — 
I  sure  love  to  try  and  please — 
Those  black  Porto  Rico  man  killers 
[45] 


All  spotted  with  skin  disease. 
He'll  eat  'em!    Oh,  he's  a  blast  furnace, 
His  forced  draft  is  something  to  see ; 
A  nicotine  hound,  that's  what  he  is — 
I've  seen  him  smoke — take  it  from  me! 
Nice  kid !  I  hope  he  gets  home  safe, 
Though  he's  such  a  Goliath  mark, 
It  would  be  as  easy  to  snipe  him 
As  the  hippo  in  Central  Park. 
I've  thought  of  his  little  'mither'- 
Their  meeting !    You  get  what  I  mean, 
After  four  years  talking  her  baby  talk 
In  her  dreams  to  her  little  wean 
And  planning  the  old  plaid  apron 
Would  make  him  a  nice  suit  of  clothes; — 
No  stepladder's  needed  in  dreamland 
To  wipe  her  wee  duckie  doo's  nose!" 


I  461 


LES  BLESSES 
From  The  American  Golfer,  December,  1917  (revised). 

"WHEN  you're  ridin'  your  war-'obbies 

Keep  an  eye  out  for  a  bloke 

Oos  been  trimmed  close  to  th'  knee-joint, 

Says  'e  comes  from  Roanoke. 

Strike  me  balmy  'es  a  cuckoo 

An'  perlite  as  any  swell 

But  these  '  Varginia '  specimens 

Are  hobstinate  as  'ell ! 

"  If  you'll  'old  your  gab  I'll  tell  you 
While  we're  munchin'  of  our  chow 
'Ow  'e  smashed  our  bloomin'  idols, 
Me  an'  Pierre's,  this  is  'ow: 
It  'appened  when  Pierre  an'  me 
Just  like  two  little  boys 
Wuz  a-knockin'  out  th'  sawdust 
From  each  others  bally  toys. 
(471 


"  For  me  an'  Pierre  wuz  wranglin', 

Our  wheel-chairs  in  a  line 

Where  Marcel  the  nurse  'ad  took  us 

For  a  dose  o'  French  sunshine. 

'Twuz  in  a  swell  toff's  garden 

Near  th'  Orspital  Chatoo 

Where  they  brought  us  lousy  beggars 

When  th'  Surgeon's  job  wuz  through. 

"  My  room-mate  Pierre  sat  near  me 

An'  'es  'ard  to  understand 

But  'e  sputtered  broken  English 

Wavin'  of  'is  only  'and. 

Once  more  'e  wuz  a-ravin' 

Of  Petain  an' Joffer.     Gawd! 

'Til  I  squelched  'im  good  an'  proper 

With  my  'Aig  an'  Byng  an'  Maude ! 

"  We  wuz  at  it  'ot  'an  'eavy 
'E  for  'is  an'  me  for  mine,— 
One  nipper  Yorkshire  Rifles 
T'other,  Batterie  eighty-nine. 
Jus'  then  we  'card  a  gentle  laugh 
Which  made  us  look  around, — 
There  sat  a  Sammy  near  us 
With  'is  slouch-'at  on  the  ground. 
[48] 


"  A  lanky,  pale  young  blessy 

With  a  shock  o'  tawny  'air 

Showin'  where  th'  shrapnel  combed  it,— 

An'  'e'd  left  a  leg  somewhere. 

'Is  eyes,  deep-set  from  fever 

'Ad  a  grayish  look  o'  steel 

Yet  they  twinkled  kind  an'  friendly, — 

Sort  o'  comradeship  appeal. 

"  'E  laughed,  then  lit  a  cigarette, 

Louisey  Ann  perique 

An'  in'aled  a  couple  lungfuls 

As  'e  started  in  to  speak : 

'  I  shore  doan  want  to  butt  in 

On  yo'  pow-wow,  Gentlemen 

But  I've  had  a  right-smart  earful 

Of  yo'  fighting  supermen ! 

"  '  I've  been  waiting,  standing  pat  here 

With  a  straight  flush  all  the  while 

And  as  it's  my  bet,  table  stakes, 

I  think  I'll  bet  my  pile. 

The  fighting  man  /  cheer  for 

Has  U.  S.  A.  on  his  grip; 

His  rough-necks  are  two-gun  men 

And  they  shoot  from  either  hip. 

4  [49] 


"  '  I  was  with  him  on  the  border 
Where  they  drink  their  pulque  neat 
And  he  shore  can  use  my  carcass 
When  he  wants  to  wipe  his  feet. 
No  offense,  my  fellow-cripples 
But  if  I  may  be  so  bold 
I  reckon  when  God  made  Pershing 
He  just  natchelly  broke  the  mould!'  " 


[50! 


SERGEANT  BROWN 

July  1 8th — After  killing  or  capturing  the  crews  of 
four  machine  guns  and  raking  a  Boche-filled  trench 
with  his  automatic  rifle,  Sergeant  J.  F.  Brown  walked 
into  American  Headquarters  late  yesterday  with  159 
prisoners.  "  I  am  sorry,  Sir,  that  I  was  unable  to  bring 
in  all  I  had,"  he  said  in  reporting,  "but  four  of  the 
wounded  died  on  me." 

A  POOR  excuse !  we  think  you  would 

Have  gotten  your  just  due 
If  you  had  suffocated  when 

Those  Heinies  died  on  you. 
If  you  had  not  been  careless 

With  your  automatic  gun 
You  could  have  goose-stepped  to  the  rear 

With  every  cursed  onef 
Are  you  a  spineless  weakling 

And  to  discipline  so  slack 
That  you  couldn't  drive  a  flock  o'  Huns 

And  tote  four  on  your  back  ? 
How  do  we  know  there  were  four  more  ? 

Your  word's  of  no  account, — 
[51] 


You  should  have  lugged  them  in  somehow, 

To  verify  the  count. 
When  the  war  is  over,  Sarge, 

And  back  you  finally  come, 
Don't  say  in  telling  your  exploit 

"I  think  that's  going  some!" 
There's  no  extenuation 

In  that  kind  of  specious  bunk 
E'en  though  you  are  round-shouldered 

From  wearing  medal  junk. 
They'll  give  you  all  that's  coming 

To  you  in  your  home  town, — 
We  mean  the  whole  damvillage, 

Serves  you  right  too,  Sergeant  Brown. 


52  I 


NENETTE   AND   RINTINTIN 


"YouR  letters  are  the  jolliest 
That  reach  this  salient; 
Cheerios  to  buck  me  up 
When,  feeling  like  a  lonesome  pup 
I'm  wondering  if  a  hemlock-cup 
Would  not  be  heaven  sent 
For  my  nostalgic  blues, — 
Then  come  your  billets-doux! 


"  I  know  their  subtle  fragrance, 
That  intangible  perfume; 
It  is  the  hair,  the  hands,  the  eyes 
In  dreams  I  nightly  visualize 
Of  one  I'll  always  idolize, 
Who  dissipates  my  gloom 
By  writing  funny  stuff, — 
Oh  Mumsy,  what  a  bluff! 
[53] 


\ 

"  I  know  if  I  could  see  you 

When  you're  writing  to  your  son, 
Your  hands  are  ice,  your  heart  is  lead, 
You  know  I'm  wounded,  gassed  or  dead, 
Then  headache  takes  you  off  to  bed 
The  letter  just  begun; 

But  first  a  little  prayer 

For  'Juney'  over  there. 

"  Our  men  here  wonder  at  the  steel 

That's  in  the  gentler  sex. 

They've  shown    the  world  their  women's 
might 

With  faces  calm,  serene  and  bright, 

Heart-riven  with  the  hellish  blight, 

This  swirling  flame-vortex 
That  makes  a  shambles  here 
Where  loved  ones  disappear. 

"  But  Pm  safe;  I  wear  amulets! 
I'm  bomb-proof  now  inside; 
I  smoke  and  sing  on  night  patrol, 
The  parapet's  my  daily  stroll; 
Snipe  on,  you  Boche!  no  bullet  hole 
Can  ventilate  my  hide 

Thanks  to  wee  maid  and  man, — 

Nenette  and  Rintintin ! 
[541 


"  Henceforth  back  on  my  bayonet 

Dead  Huns  I'll  daily  bring; 

These  worsted,  good-luck  Belgian  twins 

Protect  the  wearers'  precious  skins, 

I  cannot  even  bark  my  shins; 

Oh  death,  where  is  thy  sting? 

Don't  worry  about  me, — 

I'm  Harvey ized,  you  see!" 


I55l 


BASTILLE   DAY,   JULY   14,   1918 

Fifth  Avenue  and  4Oth  Street,  New  York. 


VIVE  LA  FRANCE! 

SOLDATS     ET     MARINS 

SOYEZ   LES   BIENVENUS 

UN   DINER   DE   POULET 

AVEC  LES  COMPLIMENTS 

DE   LA   MAISON 


THIS  chalked-up  blackboard  caught  my  eye 
As  I  was  slowly  sauntering  by; 
I  stopped  to  read  and  rest  my  legs 
And  thought  I  savored  ham  and  eggs. 
It  was  the  witching  "ham  and"  hour 
In  that  gastronomic  bower. 
I  peeked  within,  where  waiter-girls 
In  Canteen  caps  and  cutey  curls 
[56] 


Were  serving  tables,  rows  on  rows, — 
Dear  volunteering  twinkletoes ! 
The  blackboard  proved  it  was  not  chance 
That  filled  the  room  with  boys  from  France 
As  they  knew  it  was  graft  diner 
And  gorged  themselves  with  free  poulet. 
Two  sailor  lads  who'd  had  their  fill 
Came  out,  first  settling  up  their  bill, — 
U.  S.  Marines, — a  husky  pair 
Who'd  eaten  through  the  bill-of-fare. 
They  stood  and  talked  not  far  from  me; 
Note  my  short-hand  proficiency. 
Said  Bill:  "No,  Mate,  we  got  no  bleats 
Agin  that  line  o'  Canteen  eats. 
By  Gripes !     It  made  me  lick  my  paw, 
But  I  can't  help  a-feelin'  sore 
To  see  them  Frenchies  full  o'  beans 
An'  not  a  nickel  in  their  jeans ! 
That  Cop  there,  wised  that  Froggie  bunch 
An'  pointed  in  to  the  free-lunch; 
He  pushed  'em  to  that  blackboard  there 
An'  then  they  beat  it  in  for  fair! 
An'  all  because  this  is  the  day 
When  some  ol'  booby-hatch,  they  say, 
Fell  down  out  there  in  gay  Paree 
Which  means  we  fill  their  faces  free ! 
If  our  crew  ever  gets  to  France 
[57] 


We'll  frisk  one  o'  their  resterants 
And  yell  for  'em  to  fill  our  plates 
With  rooster-meat  for  all  our  mates 
An'  we  won't  cough  a  measly  sou, — 
Hell!    Libby  prison  fell  down  too!" 


[58] 


WAR  DOGS 

IN  a  deserted  village  sat 
Our  weary,  war-worn  bunch, 
Near  a  shell-torn  Chateau 
Where  we'd  halted  for  our  lunch. 

Each  one  telling  how  he  felt 
In  his  first  "zero"  hour, — 
All  except  the  sphinx-like 
Leatherneck  we  called  "old  sour." 

He  lay  prone  upon  his  back 
Apart  from  all  the  rest, 
Eyes  in  the  clouds,  his  fingers  locked 
Across  his  massive  chest. 

He  was  a  giant  bearcat, 
A  gloomy,  tongue-tied  cuss 
Who'd  talk  to  birds  and  animals 
But  wouldn't  talk  to  us. 
[59l 


He  was  an  ugly  fighter  too, 
The  best  I've  ever  met 
For  I've  waded  through  the  welter 
From  his  murderous  bayonet. 

Well,  as  we  smoked  and  chatted 
We  were  suddenly  aware 
That  a  maimed,  skulking,  starving  dog 
Appeared  from  God  knows  where. 

We  called  and  coaxed  and  whistled 
But  he  crouched,  alert  to  run, 
Mistrustful  of  a  uniform,— 
He'd  met  the  treacherous  Hun! 

A  sword-thrust  had  gashed  his  back, 

One  leg  off  at  the  knee, — 

A  merry  jest  of  kultur 

That's  the  way  it  looked  to  me. 

Just  then  we  heard  "old  sour" 
Crooning  softly  to  the  pup, 
It  wasn't  that  we  heard  him  speak 
That  made  us  all  look  up; 

His  gentle,  sympathetic  voice 
Amazed  us,  I  confess, 
With  its  tender  note  of  pity, — 
Almost  like  a  caress. 

[60] 


"Be  friends,  poor  little  blesse", 
Oh,  pas  Anglais !  I  forget 
That  you  don't  speak  the  language 
Of  my  dog  in  Joliet. 

"  So,  viens  ici  pauvre  p'tit  chien, 
Je  suis  ton  bon  ami, 
Tu  as  tres  faim,  j'en  suis  certain, 
Bien,  manges  done  ici ! 

"  Prends  vite  mon  dejeuner, 

Le  voila !  poor  old  chap, — 

Bless  God  your  faith  in  man's  restored 

Here  in  your  buddy's  lap." 

There  was  the  dog  up  in  his  arms 
His  tail  wig- wagging  joy 
While  "old  sour"  fed  the  starveling, 
Lunch  meant  for  a  doughboy. 

"Get  this!"  said  he  turning  'round 
"Here  is  man's  truest  friend, — 
Faithful,  trustful,  loyal 
And  devoted  to  the  end. 

"  You  may  be  homeless,  friendless, — 
Not  a  red  cent  to  your  name 
But  your  dog  not  being  human 
Will  still  love  you  just  the  same. 
[61] 


"  No  human  being  cared  a  hoot 
When  I  left  my  home  town 
But  I  can  see  two  agonized 
Imploring  eyes  of  brown. 

"  He's  waiting  at  the  Station  now 
For  me  to  reappear 

And  they'll  find  him  dead  there,  waiting, 
If  I  go  West  from  here!" 


[62 


WHY  WORRY? 

VON  ARNIM,  Von  Quast  and  Von  Buelow, 

Von  Marwitz,  Von  Huteir,  Von  Bohm; 

Generals  sent  by  the  Kaiser 

To  bring  all  the  bacon  home 

But  McGinnis,  McCabe  and  McSweeny, 

McManus,  McCann  and  McCall 

Are  there  with  the  "fighting  Sixty-ninth" 

To  give  them  the  scraps, — that's  all! 


[63] 


CCEUR   DE   LION 
Darkest  days  of  1917 

HE  licks  his  bleeding  wounds  as  he  lies 

The  British  Lion  at  bay ! 
A  lurid  gleam  in  his  bloodshot  eyes 
The  fighting  spirit  that  never  dies 
In  Albion's  breed  he  typifies 

Ware  of  the  coming  day ! 
Deep  in  his  throat  an  ominous  roar 

Portent  to  Attila's  crew 
Ware  the  sweep  of  his  mighty  paw 
Ware  the  crunch  of  his  massive  jaw 
Giant  ally  in  Liberty's  war 

Dauntless,  steadfast  and  true! 


[641 


HOMEWARD   BOUND 

"IT'S  daybreak  Bill,  let's  tumble  out, 
We've  had  beaucoup  of  sleep, 
This  boat  must  be  in  sight  of  land 
I  think  I'll  take  a  peep. 

"Oh  boy!  here's  God's  own  country! 
Oh,  Glory  be,  just  look 
We're  nosing  up  the  channel,  Bill, 
We've  just  passed  Sandy  Hook. 

"  Good  morrow  Barren  Island!  Gee, 
You  look  sweet  as  a  rose 
Although  you  used  to  lacerate 
The  Knickerbocker  nose. 

"  And  there's  old  Staten  Island, 
Panorama  for  sore  eyes! 
It's  Home  and  Mother  now,  Bill, 
Though  hard  to  realize, 
s  [65] 


"  La-bas  matey,  is  Hoboken, 
Ding  ding  you  am-bu-lance ! 
Come  get  your  cootie-cootie 
Little  derelicts  from  France ! 

"  Back  there's  dear  old  Manhattan 
Where  my  best  girl  waits  for  me, — 
I'm  sidestepping  all  others 
For  that  blonde  affinity. 

"  She's  the  one  I  raved  of 

When  I  got  my  ether  bun 

For  when  you  think  you're  croaking,  Bill, 

You'll  find  there's  only  one!" 

"Hell's  bells!  you're  always  bragging 
Of  the  girls  who  love  you  so ! 
You  gave  us  all  an  earache 
With  that  spiel  at  Bois  Belleau. 

"  If  you  hadn't  got  me  when 
I  crumpled  on  the  wire 
I'd  feel  like  bashing  in  the  face 
That  all  your  dames  admire. 

"  You  had  your  nerve  too,  when  you  brought 
Me  back  to  Thierry, — 
You  asked  me  who  to  notify 
If  things  went  bad  for  me 
[66] 


"  And  when  I  said  I  had  a  girl, 
A  real  tip-topper  here, 
You  muttered  '  poor  old  pie-face  Bill, 
He's  wandering,  Doc,  I  fear ! ' 

"  You  thought  of  course  a  map  like  mine 
Made  me  a  hopeless  case; 
You  didn't  give  a  Chinaman's  chance 
To  my  denatured  face ! 

"  But  you  thought  wrong,  you  blighter 
For  you'll  see  her  presently; 
She's  waiting  at  the  same  old  spot 
To  keep  her  tryst  with  me. 

"  She  doesn't  mind  my  face  at  all, 
Just  sees  my  khaki  kit, — 
That's  what  won  her  affections 
Starting  out  to  do  my  bit. 

" Look!  there  she  is!  my  Bronze  Girl! 
On  Bedloe's  Isle  you  see, — 
Je  suis  heureux  de  vous  revoir, 
C'est  moi,  BILL!  ma  cherie!  " 


[671 


WITH   THE   ALLIES 
From  The  American  Golfer,  November,  1914. 

y 

DOES  latent  love  of  powder  smoke 
Come  from  heredity? 
If  so,  the  family  itch  for  war 
Has  recrudesced  in  me. 

They  say  most  of  my  forebears 
Had  a  shoulder  for  a  gun; 
Some  went  with  Scott  to  Mexico, 
Some  fought  at  Lexington. 

At  Waterloo  they  fought  the  French ; 
Time's  whirligig  finds  me 
In  step  with  the  "red  trousers" 
In  bonne  camaraderie. 

My  father  was  with  Sherman 
Where  he  heard  the  rebel  yell; 
He  also  heard  his  General  say 
He  reckoned  war  is  hell ! 
[68] 


And  judging  from  the  shambles  here 
I  think  he  was  quite  right, 
Though  he  ne'er  saw  the  bloodless  death 
From  fumes  of  turpinite. 

Yea !  he  was  with  the  Sherman  troops 
When  they  marched  to  the  sea, — 
I  guess  his  marching  blood  has  made 
A  vagabond  of  me. 

As  a  mere  boy  I  disappeared 
From  "little  old  New  York,"— 
They  brought  me  back  from  Frisco 
For  a  serious  family  talk. 

Then  College,  where  perched  on  the  mound 

I  spent  my  student  days 

To  get  the  "stuff"  upon  the  ball 

For  inshoot  fadeaways. 

Then  I  went  on  a  ranch  out  West 
To  punch  the  maverick 
But  soon  a  restless  fit  came  on, 
I  knew  I  couldn't  stick. 

From  there  to  Catalina  isle 

For  super-dreadnought  fish, 

Then  back  from  Walla  Walla,  Wash., 

To  Escanaba,  Mich. 

[  69  ] 


I've  done  a  turn  in  vaudeville, 
I've  run  a  trolley  car, 
I've  braked  upon  the  B.  &  O. 
And  dug  in  Panama. 

In  Winnipeg  I  froze  my  feet ; 
Was  sunstruck  in  Fort  Wayne, — 
Fell  overboard  and  nearly  drowned 
Off  Kennebunkport,  Maine. 

I  joined  a  Kansas  cyclone  once, 
A  perfectly  good  blow — 
It  blew  most  of  Topeka 
Nearly  over  to  Saint  Jo. 

It  blew  me  a  full  brassie 
And  a  mashie  pitch  or  two 
Until  a  stone  wall  stymied  me, — 
I  couldn't  quite  get  through. 

I  had  to  leave  the  highway 
When  I  got  to  Muskogee, 
That  stone  wall  having  left  me 
"Casual  water"  on  the  knee. 

The  "wanderlust"  is  just  a  lofty 
Dilettante  term 
To  indicate  the  presence 
Of  the  common  hobo  germ. 
[70] 


When  this  great  cataclysm  broke 
I  was  in  Aberdeen; 
I'd  heard  the  ominous  rumblings 
Of  a  war  that  I'd  foreseen. 

I  joined  the  troops  at  Liverpool 
Whence  my  ancestors  came, — 
Some  impulse  I  could  not  resist 
Just  pulled  me  in  the  game. 

So  here  I  am  as  foreordained, 

A  nomad  ne'er-do-well 

Who  scribbles  this  while  out  of  work 

Due  to  a  piece  of  shell. 

Why  not?    Some  Yankee  poet 
From  his  wallow  in  a  trench 
May  get  his  V.  C.  from  the  hands 
Of  Kitchener  or  French ! 

One's  not  so  brave  to  get  shot  up 
Or  blown  to  bits,  or  worse, 
But  it  surely  takes  an  iron  nerve 
To  write  my  kind  of  verse ; 

Still,  fair-haired  Sergeant  Temple  says : 
"It's  ripping,  dear  old  boy!" 
Come  roars  of  their  approval 
From  MacTavish  and  Molloy; 
[71] 


Though  Greek  to  my  French  comrades 
They  cry  "Mondoo,  c'est  tres  bung!" 
The  rest  of  the  world's  critics 
Can  all  go  to,  well, — get  hung! 

L'ENVOI 

Hark !  cries  of  many  nations 
With  their  backs  against  the  wall ! 
Are  you  listening  'cross  the  ocean? 
That's  the  English  bugle  call ! 
A  cheer,  then  Tipperary, 
In  they  go  to  jaws  of  hell, 
A  nation's  flower  gasping 
Side  by  side  there  as  they  fell. 
Are  you  murmuring  my  kinsmen 
With  responsive  clutch  at  heart 
At  the  fate  which  keeps  the  Anglo-Saxon 
Brotherhood  apart? 
Shall  the  ages  see  the  Stars  and  Stripes 
With  Union  Jack  unflung, 
A  life  and  death  alliance 
Among  those  who  speak  our  tongue? 
Would  polyglots  acclaim  it  as 
World  Strife  forever  hushed, 
A  covenant  that  monstrous 
Militarism  is  crushed? 
[72! 


Your  silent  men  are  thinking 

Through  their  stern  neutrality; 

Are  they  pondering  the  empty  phrase 

Of  "hands  across  the  sea"? 

In  dreamland  were  they  marching 

With  the  British  lads  who  fell 

In  fighting  for  "a  scrap  of  paper"? 

History  will  tell! 


[731 


SOMEWHERE 

MACLAREN  of  the  Seaforths ! 
A  visage  leonine; 
Drum-fire  spit  of  machine  guns, 
A  decimated  line. 

MacLaren  of  the  Seaforths ! 
The  sands  are  running  low; 
Forebodings  of  a  stricken  lass 
Where  bonnie  blue-bells  blow. 

MacLaren  of  the  Seaforths! 
With  premonition  true, 
Your  trenchmates  gone  of  yester-eve 
Are  beckoning  to  you. 

MacLaren  of  the  Seaforths ! 
Objective  just  ahead; 
The  flame-blighted  shell-scarred  knoll 
Its  slopes  o'erstrewn  with  dead. 
(74l 


MacLaren  of  the  Seaforths ! 
Patter  of  leaden  rain; 
A  choking  gasp,  a  crumpled  form, 
A  quick  surcease  from  pain. 

MacLaren  of  the  Seaforths! 

A  body  stiff  and  stark 

Where  man's  death-dealing  messenger 

Had  found  its  giant  mark. 

A  chaplain's  requiescat, 

A  grave  in  foreign  mold 

Neath  poppy  blooms  nid-nodding, — 

The  story's  oft  been  told. 

Somewhere  in  war's  grim  record, 
Just  one  more  valiant  part; 
Somewhere  in  the  bleak  Highlands, 
Just  one  more  broken  heart. 


751 


MY  PAL  FRANCOIS 
Artilleur,  Douzieme  Batterie 

"EEZ  eet  good-bye  zen,  aujourd'hui? 
You  leave  wiz  your  artillerie 
For  go  back  to  Etats  Unis ! 
Sacr6  nom !  il  est  bien  loin  d'ici. 

"  My  heart  eez  sad;  so  now  shak'  ban's 
Here  by  my  ol'  soixante-quinze ; 
Cessez  le  feu !  have  spoil  our  plans 
For  mak'  ragout  of  allemands. 

"  Long  time  we  boce  have  serve  ze  guns 
For  send  ze  foodstuff  to  ze  Huns ; 
C'est  vrai  we  feed  zem  tons  an'  tons 
Franco-Ame'ricam  lyddite  buns. 

"  Eet  was  my  life!  I  am  like  you, 
We  now  have  nozzing  left  to  do, 
Ze  flaming  orchestra  eez  through, — 
C'est  dommage,  il  n'y  en  a  plus. 
176] 


"  I  wanted  tak'  you  a  Paris 
For  one, — qu'  est-ce  que  c'est, — beeg  spree ! 
Ce  n'etait  pas  ma  faute  you  see, — 
Comprenez-vous  ce  que  je  dis? 

"  I  have  ze  horreur  of  zis  day 
When  you  tell  me  you  gone  away. 
Eet  eez  adieu !  oui,  je  le  sais, 
J'en  suis  extre'mement  faclie". 

"  I  would  not  leave  you,  au  contraire, 
Eef  we  been  fightin'  overzaire, — 
I  send  for  my  charmante  sistaire 
For  keep  ze  house,  apres  la  guerre. 

' '  Who  say,  fren'ship  like  you  an'  me 
C'est  passe  ou  il  est  fini ! 
Some  day  bien  stir  your  eyes  weel  see 
Moi,  Franc,  ois!  vraiment  je  vous  suis. 

"  I  have  resolve  de  tout  mon  coeur 
J'irai  avec  ma  jolie  soeur; 
I  tak'  my  sistaire  parce  que 
Mebbee  you  fall  in  love  wiz  her. 

' '  Zen  peut  £tre,  my  dream  come  true 
Zat  my  sweet  Jeanne  she  marry  you, 
Zen  when  night  come  an'  work  eez  through 
I  have  ze  chair  an'  pipe  chez-vous!" 

[77] 


THE  SMOKED  YANKEES 

"YASSIR!  I  got  dose  wound-stripes 
In  foreign  jography 
With  the  Three  Hundred  Sixty-ninth 
01'  Fifteenth  Infantry. 

"  I  got  my  honor'ble  discharge 
Account  o'  my  right  wing; 
Dat  hand  was  blown  clean  off  de  map 
With  my  gold  token-ring. 

"Jus'  came  back  on  de  Celtic,  Boss, 
An'  now  our  Tenderloin — 
Meanin'  ol'  Sixth  Avenoo — 
Will  soon  eat  up  my  coin. 

"  Den  back  to  my  ol'  job  again, 
A  hash  house,  servin'  eats, — 
Dat  busts  my  army  pride  to  go 
Back  yellin'  '  brown  de  wheats ! ' 
(781 


"An*  once  yo'  snuff  dat  mustard 
From  de  gas  dat  skins  yo'  raw 
Yo'  can't  smear  no  ham  sandwiches 
With  dat  compound  no  mo' 

"  An'  with  no  C.  O.  near  me 
An'  a  cleaver  'round  somewhere 
One  order  for  a  Hamburg  steak 
Might  send  me  to  th'  chair ! 

"  I  guess  I'll  try  to  get  a  job 
At  some  Fifth  Avenoo  shop 
To  wear  a  gold-lace  uniform, — 
A  limousine  bell-hop, 

"  Den  some  day  Colonel  Hay  ward 
Maybe  come  a-strollin'  by 
An'  my  left-hand  salute  will  catch 
His  military  eye. 

"Maybe  he'll  stop,  stretch  out  his  hand 
An'  say,  'Boy,  put  it  there! 
Yo're  one  o'  my  Smoked  Yankees, 
I  can  tell  'em  anywhere ! 

"  '  I  hate  to  see  yo'  dolled  up 
In  a  Admiral's  uniform 
But  presume  yo'  needs  th'  money 
Fo'  po'k  chops  an'  somethin*  warm. 
l79l 


"  'O  I  place  yo'  now, — Mose  Washington, 
Corporal,  Company  B, — 
I  pinned  dat  medal  on  yo' 
Fo'  dat  intrepidity ! 

"  '  Yo'  black  hide's  perforated 
Like  a  ol'  tin  pepper-box 
Fo'  yo're  de  gluttonest  coon  dat  ever 
Stood  in  army  socks ! 

"  '  Shrapnel,  bayonet,  trench-grenades 
An'  sprayed  with  liquid  fire, — 
Yo'  got  mo'  lives  dan  a  black  cat, 
Yo'  have,  or  I'm  a  liar! 

'"No  white  man  in  de  army,  Mose, 
Has  fought  mo'  gallantly; 
I  never  had  a  braver  nigger 
Fightin'  under  me ! ' 


"  Den  Boss,  my  cup  o'  pipe-dreams 
Will  be  full  up  to  de  brim; 
He's  my  ol'  Colonel,  fo'  two  bits 
I'd  go  to  hell  fo' him!" 


80] 


"SMILES" 

AT  Twenty-seventh  Headquarters 
A  goggled  youth  dubbed  "Smiles" 
Had  streaked  a  motorcycle 
Over  leagues  of  lumpy  miles 

Doing  dispatch-riding 
Back  and  forth  for  the  C  Os, 
Not  a  soporific  job 
As  every  soldier  knows. 

Sunlight,  moonlight,  rain  or  shine 
They'd  see  him  whizzing  by 
Dodging  shells  and  taking  all 
Pup-craters  on  the  fly. 

He  brought  along  his  cheery  smile 
So  all  the  doughboys  say, 
From  Spartanburg,  where  he  picked  up 
His  fitting  sobriquet. 


He'd  picked  up«almost  everything 
They  pick  up  in  a  trench 
From  live-stock  to  a  knowledge 
Of  extraordinary  French 

Which  on  occasions  he  would  air 
(The  French)  quite  willingly 
To  puzzle  the  long-suffering 
Gallic  peasantry. 

With  good-humored  complaisance 
He'd  embrace  the  frequent  chance 
To  show  the  friendly  poilus 
He  was  quite  at  home  in  France. 

One  night,  one  of  his  Company 
Brought  "Smiles"  a  fountain-pen 
And  said,  "Corp,  you  always  write 
The  love  notes  for  us  men. 

"  I  just  got  this  here  postcard, — 
I  think  it's  from  my  best, — 
See,  here  she  signs  it  '  Fifi, ' 
That's  the  peach  I  met  in  Brest. 

"Naw!  I  can't  read  the  damn  thing, 
Please  de-code  the  stuff  for  me 
And  cop  out  a  swell  answer 
Like  a  hunk  o'  poetry. 
[82! 


"  You're  hell  on  French  an'  I  don't  know 

A  word  except  '  bebe ! ' 

It's  gotta  be  in  French  or  she 

Won't  get  a  word  I  say. 

"Just  hand  her  gobs  o'  Hoola  stuff, — 
Tobasco  Coochie  Coo, — 
An'  I'll  go  polish  an'  oil  up 
Your  motor-bike  for  you." 

Now  "Smiles"  had  missed  tobacco 
And  had  evidence  to  show 
That  Smith  was  quite  light-fingered, — 
Now  for  a  quid  pro  quo. 

So  this  is  what  the  mail  bag  took 
Next  morning  back  to  Brest 
From  a  near-Academician 
At  Private  Smith's  request : 

"  Je  suis  surpris  de  recevoir 
Une  chaud  poste  cart  de  vous. 
Vous-avez  beaucoup  de  la  nerve ! 
Ne  plus,  Fifi,  ne  plus ! 

"Vous  etes  extremement  me'chante, 
Je  vous  passez  ze  mitt; 
Sacrebleu !  sans  introduction 
Vouz-avez  moi  ecrit ! 
[83] 


"  Ou  avez-vous  fait  mon 
Connaisance,  Fifi  dear? 
Je  ne  puis  pas  remember 
Any  Fifis!    C'est  a  rire! 

"  Vous-avez  cinquinte  ans  n'est  pas? 
Oui  Fifi,  je  le  sais ; 
J'aime  toujours  la  dix-sept  ans, — 
Adieu  done !    C'est  assez ! 

"N'essayez  pas  de  vamp  me, 

Je  n'ai  pas  any  wad; 

Vous  avez  faim  seulment  pour  coin, — 

Vous  me  rendez  malade!" 

Fifi's  answer  was  one  word 

And  hence,  exceeding  terse 

But  "Smiles"  explained  to  Private  Smith 

It  meant  she  loved  his  verse 

And  also  that  she  loved  him: 
Now  he  could  carry  on, — 
He  had  her  shy  avowal 
In  the  magic  word  "Cochon!" 

But  later  Private  Smith  said  "Corp, 
I  know  what  that  word  means, 
You're  a  helluva  French  scholar! 
You  sure  have  spilled  the  beans ! 
[84] 


"To  scare  the  chickens  seems  to  be 
A  motorcyclist's  joke 
But, — I'll  call  it  square,  old  kill-joy 
If  you've  got  somethin'  to  smoke!" 


[85] 


ARE   WE   DOWNHEARTED? 

"WHERE  do  we  go  from  here,  boys? 
Was  the  song  we  sang  over  in  France 
When   we'd   mopped    them    up   with   the 

bayonet 
And  keen  for  a  further  advance. 

"Where  do  we  go  from  here,  boys 
Now  we're  back  home  from  overseas? 
Do  we  brigade  with  the  'submerged  tenth' 
When  we're  out  at  elbows  and  knees? 

"  Where  do  we  go  from  here,  boys 
And  where  does  the  trail  now  lead  ? 
Back  to  the  echoing  slough  of  despond, — 
'  We've  got  all  the  hands  we  need ! ' 

"  Where  do  we  go  from  here,  boys 
Now  that  housework  is  getting  pass£ 
And  the  new  girl-man  is  elbowing  us 
Into  the  cold  consomme"? 
[86] 


"  Where  do  we  go  from  here,  boys? 
We  might  get  a  maid's  job,  we  might, 
Dusting  and  sweeping  and  purling  betimes 
And  putting  the  cat  out  at  night. 

"I'm  damned  if  I  know  where  to  go,  boys, 
To  bring  home  some  kale  for  my  shack; 
It  looks  like  a  bench  in  the  park,  boys 
For  thousands  of  us  who  came  back. 

"  I  knew  dead  sure  where  I'd  go,  boys, — 
Straight  West  in  a  spatter  of  blood, — 
If  the  shell  that  dropped  in  my  dugout 
Hadn't  turned  out  to  be  a  dud 

"  But  if  this  is  what  I  came  home  for, 
The  bread-line  up  there  on  Broadway, 
I'm  sorry  that  dud  wasn't  functioning 
When  it  paid  me  a  visit  that  day." 


87 


THE   GAP   IN   THE   LINE 

WE  saw  her  there  in  the  cheering  throng, 
A  frail  little  Mother,  careworn  and  gray, 
When  our  young  veterans  marched  along 
Under  the  Victory  Arch  that  day. 
Ashes  of  hope  in  her  burnt-out  eyes, 
Lips  supplicating  in  fervent  prayer, 
Invoking  someone  in  spectral  guise 
To  march  with  the  living  heroes  there. 
Look !  little  Mother,  the  wraith-like  come ! 
Who  beckons  there  from  the  Spirit  row 
On  noiseless  feet  to  the  beat  of  the  drum  ? 
Your  little  nursling  of  long  ago ! 
Shoulder  to  shoulder  with  ghostly  tread,— 
Vapor-like  passing  of  phantom  ships, — 
Hark!  "Mother  mine,  we  are  the  dead!" 
A  smile  for  her  on  his  pallid  lips. 
Sayest  thou  He  would  not  beatify 
This  swooning  Mother, — inanimate  clod? 
Sceptics,  know  ye  the  wherefore  and  why 
Of  the  inscrutable  acts  of  God  ? 
[88] 


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